


Albedo

by Lil-Ol-Cricket-Bug (LoxleyAndBagell)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, F/F, F/M, Les Amies de l'ABC, Multi, Snow Queen Elements, edwardian influences, i blame opus for everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoxleyAndBagell/pseuds/Lil-Ol-Cricket-Bug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now then, let us begin. When we are at the end of the story, we shall know more than we know now: but to begin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Albedo

_This Saturday at the Basilique du Sacre-Coeur,  a memorial service will be held for Marie- Francoise Grantaire. The service will begin at ten o’ clock in the morning, followed immediately by a visitation in the churchyard to erect the tombstone. There are no remains of Mademoiselle Grantaire to intern, but her friends, Les Amis de L’ABC, have graciously supplied a headstone to be placed in the churchyard. Tea is to be held afterwards at the Salon of Mademoiselle Prouvaire, on the Rue Cortot in Montmartre, where a showing of the deceased’s art will occur._

_Mademoiselle Grantaire lived in Paris for the majority of her short life as an artist on Montmartre, and was a frequent face at the Moulin Rouge, Chat Noir, and other cafes and nightclubs. These locales feature heavily in her sketches and paintings, as well as an enormous collection of portraits._

“Enjolras, would you come here and talk some sense into Courfeyrac?”

 

Enjolras set the paper down and turned to answer Prouvaire. The poet in question had her hands on her hips, glaring at the accused Courfeyrac crossly, the dinner table between the two ladies. Upon it sat the portrait of Grantaire in a carved wooden frame.

 

“I can hardly tell what I’ve done to displease you,” said Courfeyrac to Prouvaire, paying Enjolras no mind. “I asked for a frame for a young lady’s funeral, I told them a floral motif would be preferable, it’s even got spring flowers on it!”

 

Prouvaire was not to be assuaged. “It’s _crocuses._ You didn’t by chance tell them it was for a young _single_ lady’s funeral as well, did you?”

 

“Well, it may have come up, they wondered if I was a sister or an in-law, I told them I was neither—“

 

“There you have it!” Prouvaire cried, throwing up her arms.

 

Enjolras cut in briskly. “Please, it’s too early in the morning to be squabbling. Perhaps I’ve got another frame that fits the picture somewhere in the house. It’s too late to get another frame now, we’ve got to be at the church in an hour to set up. Prouvaire, what is so terribly offensive about crocuses?”

 

Enjolras had never seen Prouvaire so on edge; she was practically vibrating with frustration. “It’s a Homeric reference, to the Hymn to Demeter, Persephone picking crocuses before getting abducted by Hades and all that. Naturally that’s what’s assigned to unmarried girls’ funerals, because really, the only thing worth mourning is the fact that she died before getting married and making babies, apparently, and Grantaire would have gotten the reference too, and it’s hardly kind to her—“

 

“Very well,” Courfeyrac acknowledged, tired but understanding, her voice careful. “We’ll be in luck, though; nobody else is going to understand it, will they? It’s a symbol of rebirth and all that, that’s how everyone else will read it, right?”

 

“Oh, you sincerely underestimate the company Grantaire kept,” Prouvaire snapped witheringly.  “Even the _flower-seller_ is going to be there!”

 

Enjolras was too weary and anxious to be a good judge. “Prouvaire, we have very little time to be throwing a tantrum, and I haven’t got any frames with grape vines, so if we could please calm down, and hurry along—“

 

Prouvaire whirled on her, holding up a silencing, accusing finger. “And we haven’t got any time for any more of your cruelty towards her,” she snarled, eyes bright. “Honestly, Enjolras? You’re going to prick her apart when she’s not here, _today?”_

Enjolras was momentarily taken aback, but soon recovered. “I’m just refusing to pander to your—“

 

“Enjolras, enough,” Courfeyrac barked. There was silence in the dining room as Enjolras seethed, holding Courfeyrac’s disapproving stare defiantly, and Prouvaire trembled, eyes bright and jaw tight.

 

It was two equally rare events when Courfeyrac was so stern and Prouvaire was so angry. For both to happen on the same day was virtually unheard of, but then it was equally preposterous that Grantaire should vanish. Unnerved and too tired to hold a grudge all day, Enjolras conceded and lowered her eyes first.

 

Thus victorious, Courfeyrac’s attention turned to Prouvaire, both tired and gentle. She crossed the room to the roiling girl, and offered her arms out to her, saying softly, “I’m sorry. I should have taken you along.”

 

“Don’t you—“ Prouvaire began, but Courfeyrac cut her off, still gentle. “Marion, may I finish?”

 

Prouvaire nodded once, acceding.

 

Courfeyrac kept her arms open, continuing quietly. “You’ve already done a tremendous amount of work for this, getting the church and sending out the notices and invitations, organizing the showing, even volunteering to host afterwards. I didn’t ask because I thought you’d appreciate having one less thing to do. I’m sorry, Marion. I didn’t know how this would upset you.”

 

Prouvaire had visibly deflated during the monologue, and drifted closer to the offered embrace, until by the end of Courfeyrac’s speech, they had settled together, Prouvaire relaxing and eventually putting her own arms around Courfeyrac. Once the sound of soft sniffling was heard coming from Prouvaire, Courfeyrac turned her eyes to Enjolras expectantly. Enjolras shrugged, confused, still uncomprehending when Courfeyrac gestured briefly to Prouvaire.

 

Accepting, Courfeyrac sighed and said to Prouvaire, looking at Enjolras, “I agree that Enjolras’ little quip was very insensitive; when even I can understand the reference, that’s how you know you’ve gone too far.”

 

“Shush that,” Prouvaire weakly scolded, voice a little damp.

 

Courfeyrac’s attention turned back to Prouvaire, dismissing Enjolras. As she skulked out of the dining room to find her hat, she heard Courfeyrac saying, “Imagine how funny Grantaire would find it, though; She’d take great pride in being a Persephone, wouldn’t she?”

 

 

 

At exactly eight thirty, Combeferre knocked on the door. Enjolras answered, hat in place but veil still set back.

 

“There you are,” she said briskly as Combeferre entered. “You’ve missed a most unusual morning; Prouvaire shouted at us, and Courfeyrac had to take charge.”

 

That gave Combeferre a start. “Where is Prouvaire? Is she better now?”

 

Enjolras huffed, gesturing to the absurd rolls of black crepe loaded by the door, and her own black mourning dress. “I hope so; I carried all this down the stairs, and I’d appreciate the help getting it all out.”

 

Combeferre’s jaw dropped incredulously, but her mouth quickly snapped shut. She sighed, then shouldered past Enjolras, calling, “Marion? Jacquette? Where are you two hiding?”

 

Prouvaire’s responding call was too faint for Enjolras to pick up. With a sigh, she began to carry out the crepe to the carriage.

 

After another five minutes, she was finally accompanied by both her lieutenants and Prouvaire, all dry-eyed and neatly done-up, carrying along the box of candles as well as the remainder of the crepe. Atop her bundle, Prouvaire was carrying the framed picture, and once all the fabric was loaded within the trunk, she carried it within to her seat. Courfeyrac, catching Enjolras’ eye on Prouvaire’s small burden, gave her a warning look before alighting to her seat as well.

 

 

“So, who did that portrait of her?” Combeferre asked Prouvaire mildly as she started the engine. “One of her neighbors?”

 

Prouvaire shook her head, something dazed in her calm expression. “Self-portrait.”

 

“Really?” Combeferre blinked, surprised. “I don’t remember ever seeing her work with colored pencils. She preferred—“

 

“Watercolors,” Prouvaire nodded, gaze on the picture on her lap. “She was playing with colored pencils, most recently.”

 

“She must have really enjoyed it,” Courfeyrac chimed in, brightly. “There was a sketchbook filled with completed drawings, not just scribbled out partway through. There were plenty of those in the other journals, weren’t there?”

 

Prouvaire smiled a little at that. “I like this one,” she said quietly. “I like that she finished this one. She looks right in this one.”

 

Enjolras looked out the window. The shops were knocking down melting icicles from their roofs.

 

“How do you mean, dear?” Combeferre asked softly.

 

Outside, an old man paused in his walk and removed his scarf from his neck and stuffed it into his pocket.

 

“The other self-portraits she did were too mean-spirited,” Prouvaire said at last. “It was like she was drawing a goblin, not a woman at all. She looks lighter, I suppose, not just in lighter colors. She didn’t straighten out her nose, she didn’t forget a single spot, or make her cheeks rosier, or her hair brighter.

 

“But look here!” she laughed, voice starting to go rough. “She remembered her dimples, and she’s not forcing a smile. It’s as if she woke up, had an easy morning, then had some time to sit down and make a drawing. I don’t know why that’s so affecting, really.”

 

There was a soft noise as Courfeyrac reached over to rest her gloved hand atop Prouvaire’s.

 

Enjolras absently rubbed at the twinge in her chest as she watched the shopkeepers sweep the slushy snow into the street.

 

 

 

The others were waiting for them at the base of the mount at the funicular, dressed just as neatly and bearing their own pieces into the car.

 

Enjolras nodded politely at the gentleman accompanying Joly and Laigle, and in turn he smiled tightly and bobbed his head. He was dressed very handsomely, and even with a cold, polite smile his dimples showed. His dark eyes were very tired and heavy, and their attention swept quickly to Joly and Laigle. Both the ladies had one of his arms settled gently about their shoulders, and Laigle leaned into him tiredly, while Joly toyed with her cane, expression distant.

 

Wordlessly, they loaded everything from Combeferre’s trunk, settled in, and rang the bell.

 

As they waited for the car to start moving up the mount, the attention went back to the portrait.

 

The gentleman shifted in his seat and engaged Prouvaire. “What have you got there, Marion?” he asked, falsely cheerful. It was a pretty attempt at normalcy, and therefore all the more obvious.

 

Wordlessly, Prouvaire handed the frame over to him, who only got one glance in before his façade cracked with a surprised little huff. Quickly remembering himself, he showed Joly and Laigle.

 

“What do you make of that?” he asked the two ladies.

 

Laigle’s brow furrowed, but her face became no more mobile than that. She reached out to touch the portrait’s face, and the gentleman looked to see Joly’s reaction. She looked more alert than before, but when Laigle’s fingers lingered at the paper, Joly began to quake and turn as red as a tomato with weeping that she smothered in the gentleman’s shoulder.

 

The funicular jolted to a start, and Enjolras watched Paris shrink away the fussing and mourning of her car-mates filled her ears.

 

 

Enjolras could hear the ice dripping on the glass windows of the church.

 

The mass was given in Latin (naturally), and the priest’s voice echoed, in spite of the crowd. They had counted artists, sculptors, musicians, and dancers among the throng, all done up in their freshly-darned Sunday best. No family had come, in spite of the letter send by Laigle and Joly two weeks ago.

 

The crowd had come nearly half an hour before the appointed time of nine, and a steady stream of mourners had trailed in until it was time for the mass. Enjolras had found herself stuck towards the back of the church, trapped as a greeter, receiving handshakes and sad smiles alongside introductions.

 

She knew virtually none of them, but nearly every single person nodded at her name, tacking on a “She spoke so often of you.” Sometimes the phrase was amused, sometimes warm, almost always bearing a bitter undercurrent.

 

 _That’s wine-talk for you,_ Grantaire’s voice teased in her imagination. _Quick study, you are._

Feuilly had sent a note apologizing that she couldn’t attend the funeral, but would hopefully see them all at Prouvaire’s salon later. It was curt and formal and not at all like her usual style, as Enjolras pointed out.

 

“She may be ill,” Bahorel explained, falsely bright and pocketing the note. Enjolras very nearly argued that Feuilly very often went in for work with the flu, but there was something in Bahorel’s clenched jaw that made her hold her tongue.

 

The framed self-portrait stood upon a short table before the altar in lieu of the coffin. Enjolras could tell, now that there was precious little else to distract her, that Courfeyrac had, indeed, found the time to replace the frame with a plain wooden one. Enjolras didn’t recognize it, but wondered which relative of hers would look the most disapproving in a crocus frame.

 

 _Pick your many-times Great Uncle Antinous,_ suggested the voice of Grantaire. Enjolras could practically see the little wretch flutter her eyelashes as she added, _you’d curry favor with not only Prouvaire for accuracy (as far as she’s concerned), but with Hadrian, as well. In-laws like to be pleased, as well._

The weak morning light could only burn through the stained-glass windows so much, and what colors were strong enough to be cast reflected dull and muddy against the black-garbed crowd and black-draped altar, dark as a river bottom. Because of the chill, no windows were cracked open, so the result was a stifling warmth, made no better with the flowers arranged everywhere. Lilies and carnations from hothouses were in abundance, certainly, but so were forsythia, daisies, little yellow primroses, intensely blue forget-me-nots, all supplied by the tiny, ancient flower-seller.

 

“As gay as a meadow,” Bahorel whispered to Joly, standing on her toes and squeezing her hand. They were in the pew in front of Enjolras, almost entirely in the back, Joly and Bossuet and their gentlman for their grief, Bahorel and her companion for company, and Enjolras for…

 

Enjolras for…

 

 _Equalized opportunities for work?_ Grantaire’s voice piped up again. _A stronger emphasis by factory owners on local production? An un-stigmatized introduction of short hair to women’s fashion? Come now, Enjolras, you’re so good at knowing what you’re all about, aren’t you?_

Enjolras resisted the urge to snort derisively.

 

In front of her, Joly began to tremble, shakily confiding to Bahorel, “There’s no roses. She loved red roses more than the others.”

 

“Well,” Bahorel said brightly, rubbing Joly’s back, “we shall have to plant her a bush when the weather’s better. Give her roses of her own, she’d like that, wouldn’t she?”

 

Joly was properly weeping again, her hand on her cane white-knuckled, and her gentleman helped Bahorel to guide her to sit down as Laigle had been seated for the whole business, unmoving. Soon, the whole row was sitting, arms about one another, Bahorel’s eyes wide and uncertain and frightened, and then the priest was swinging about incense, and that was it, that was the last straw for Enjolras as she strode to the door.

 

 

 

There was a little bride in the cemetery over a little dug-out stream for run-water to drain out. Enjolras went to stand there, angry that Grantaire couldn’t have waited a week to go wandering off. If she had waited a week, then Enjolras wouldn’t have had to go to church with all their friends, all sitting together in their miserable ugly black clothes. She wouldn’t have had to endure a silent and devastatingly blank Laigle, or a weeping Joly, or sit in a cloud of grief for as long as she did before having to leave if Grantaire had just _stayed put_ before getting the idea to go stomping off before the weather was this manageable, with spring so near.

 

But she hadn’t, and now Enjolras was here, sweating under her armpits in itchy black wool and hair so cloudy and loose about her face that it felt it would all fall apart at any moment, yet the pins holding her hat to her head so securely they were pricking her scalp, and her feet crying in distress in her skinny little dress-boots.

 

She felt as uniformed as a chorus girl.

 

A Mourning Chorus. Grantaire would have liked that. Would have gone on and on about the professional mourning industry of the ancient world, probably would have grumbled about the Romans and ancient funerary laws. It would have turned, somehow, into a lewd request for a grieving can-can.

 

Grantaire would have recited the standard readings for funerals, would have tipped back a drink for every requirement for a standard funeral, a “mail-order event,” that had been met in the church. She would have laughed and given up the game, once she had taken a look at Enjolras’ get-up.

 

“Damn you,” Enjolras grated out, unpinning her hat savagely, feeling some hairs tearing out. “Damn you, damn your eyes.”

 

She dropped her hat and the pins on the bridge, then bent down to tug her boots off. “You’re not getting the satisfaction, Grantaire,” she hissed. “Not today, you…”

 

She stopped at the sight of her red laces.

 

 _Another drink!_ Grantaire’s voice guffawed in her mind. _Blatant attempt at shocking all the other nice Mourning Chorines! Or are you just being maudlin?_

“I owe you _nothing,_ ” Enjolras hissed, her eyes burning as she plucked the knots apart, fingers tugging impatiently at the laces until they came out. “Not a damn fool _thing.”_

_O-ho, so secret is your grief, then, so shameful, that—_

She started on the other boot in an equally violent fashion, not holding back her growl, tearing them a little in her eagerness. She kicked her feet free of the boots, standing in her silk-stockinged feet, cold already against the wood, as she knotted up the laces.

 

She wiped at the cold, wet lines on her cheeks with her spare hand, hissing at the laces, “the only thing I owe you is a swift kick in the _rear.”_

The Grantaire in her mind, the one that laughed merrily as she tore her hat off, that had mocked her in the church, taunted, _all you’ve accomplished is mussing your hair; if anything, I owe you something for throwing such a tizzy over me._

The Grantaire in her mind was soon joined by the Grantaire she had met last spring, the one that had given her the laces a month after on her birthday. That Grantaire had, upon revealing the laces, said, _so they know which boots stomped them into the dirt,_ smiling shyly, careful not to show her gap-teeth or expose any of her missing teeth to Enjolras.

 

That same Grantaire had so inconveniently dashed off last week, but not before giving Enjolras the same careful smile as she said _be easy_ before trotting off into the snow.

 

Not even teasing her, like the Grantaire in her mind was, did that vanished Grantaire ever show Enjolras all her teeth.

 

Dampness was already ruining Enjolras’ stockings, and was now seeping into her elbows as she slumped on the bridge railing. Her grip on the laces eased, and she was now threading them through her fingers.

 

The Grantaire that had left would never get so lost. Grantaire could always find her way back home. No matter where Grantaire was, she could always get home in less than five minutes.

 

She would never leave the town limits, in any state, in weather that was as wretched as it was last week. She knew the place to well for that. She would never _consider_ it.

 

She slumped so that her brow hit the railing as well, twining the laces around and around her fingers.

 

“Come _back_ ,” she croaked. “Get _back_ here. Take what’s coming to you.”

 

Her feet were properly cold, by this point. She supposed she ought to re-lace the boots, but somehow, the mere prospect of just sitting down again felt like too much, let alone going through the work of tying the laces back.

 

“Get back here,” she mumbled. “I’ll go about with cold feet, see if I don’t.”

 

No response.

 

“I _will,_ ” she insisted, tightening her grip on the laces. “See if I don’t.”

 

Her throat felt very hot. “Come _back._ You’ve got ‘til count of five. Send a proxy, come yourself, I don’t care, just… _Fix this._ Five.”

 

The stream was gurgling below her, a hard tinny sound. There was a lot of melt on Montmartre.

 

“Four.”

 

Somewhere over the bridge, along the road, a cart rolled along, sloshing mud and molten snow.

 

“Three.”

 

Overhead, the first robin of spring flew by, and she missed him.

 

“Two.”

 

A breeze blew by her, over the back of her neck, a note of warmth.

 

“Don’t make me say it, you…”

 

“Enjolras?”

 

Startled, she righted herself to look at Combeferre. In her fluster, she felt the laces slip away, and she twisted to retrieve them again, gasping. They fluttered down to the stream, and a sound like a howl poured out of her throat.

 

She felt her blood boil as they floated away too quickly on the swift-moving water, turning to lean over the other railing to watch them float out of sight, clawing at the air as though that would get them back.

 

She nearly made a break to run along the side of the stream to catch them back, but instead found herself caught in Combeferre’s sure grip, her friend’s arms wrapping around her from behind, sturdy as she struggled.

 

“Take ‘em!” She squawked. “See if I care! Take ‘em and run away and don’t ever come back, and see just how much I care! You beastly little… “

 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre sighed, voice damp. “Oh, _Enjolras,_ no.”

 

“Damn her _eyes._ ”

 

“Shush, my dear, shush. Be _easy,_ Enjolras.”

 

Enjolras let out a wordless cry of rage, too angry to do anything but crumple against Combeferre, who turned her around and gathered her close and wiped at her cheeks with a white linen kerchief, still shushing.

 

Combeferre gathered up Enjolras’ boots and hat, and guided Enjolras to the main street to hail a cab. As the two ladies climbed into a cab, the first robin of spring sang his song before flying in the direction the stream flowed.

 

 

_Day 3: smooth flying over Bretagne today, did not fly close enough to water in humble opinion._

_J doubtful many active whale pods in channel._

_scolded J for being such a Doubting Thomas. told that, once able to fly the machine, can go swooping all over the damn water but first need to stop being so squeamish during air travel._

_J has experiential bias and is a shitty flier. need no further reference, am certain of it. so far all decisions made during this venture have not led to any real regret._

_will always regret that mutton in Normandy though. will regret most dietary choices made in Normandy._

_next stop landing._


End file.
